Venice
by SophieDevereauxtoo
Summary: Sophie calls Tara for help. This is the story behind the scene in The Nigerian Job where Soph and Nate shoot at each other. I changed the setting from Paris to Venice mostly because I wrote it before I realized that it was set and I liked what I had.


I feel the sudden vibration against my thigh and my heart skips a beat. I discreetly reach to the cell phone in the sleeve where I keep it. It is a text message. Only two people on this planet have the number to my cell phone. Mother doesn't know how text so that means it has to be Sophie. She would never use this number unless she was in a dire situation.

I try to keep the panic down as I read her message. "I need you". I quickly dismiss myself from the group of people I have been touring the museum with. I head straight to the airport. I don't bother even to go to the hotel to pack my things. Sophie needs me and she needs me now.

Two more texts. From me: "where?" From her: "Venice". I catch the next flight available.

The flight time to Venice is about 3 hours. I spend that time willing the plane to fly faster and trying to block the horrible thoughts that are invading my brain.

I text Sophie as soon as we touch down. She replies with a hotel name and a room number.

Damn Venice and all that water. It takes what seems like hours to get to the hotel. Finally the elevator lands and I find Sophie's room on the top floor. With my stomach in knots, I knock on the door.

It takes Sophie too long to answer and I begin to panic again. Finally the door opens and I push myself in, scared but ready for anything. Still I am shocked by what I see.

Sophie is standing several steps back from the door. She looks awful. Her hair is a matted mess. Her face is a horrible shade of pale and covered in sweat. She is topless and I can see blood over her back and side, her right arm hangs awkwardly and she is cradling it with her left. She looks as if she might tip over at any second and leans into the wall to steady herself.

"Oh my god, Sophie. Oh my god what happened?" I rush to her and grab her as she starts to wobble. I walk her gently to the bed and sit her down so I can look her over and assess the damage. It looks to me like she's been shot but it's hard to tell through all the mess. Most is dry but dark thick blood is still oozing from the wound. "Oh my god Sophie!"

She tries to talk but I shush her. She can tell me what happened later. Right now we need to get her cleaned up and decide if I can help her or if I need to take her to a hospital. The ooze and her color and the sweat on her face concern me that the wound may be deep and that she is in shock, possibly bleeding internally. An infection could be deadly.

I go into the bathroom to see what I have to work with. Bloody towels and spilled bottles of over the counter pain relievers cover the floor and counter. I select a mostly clean towel and wet it with hot water.

Back with Sophie, I gently clean her back, side and hands. She looks at me gratefully though she still can't find the strength to talk. I lay her softly onto her good side and try to get a better look.

Definitely a bullet wound. How she managed to get herself shot in the back I can't even imagine. I look at Sophie. Her eyes are closed tight and the pain and fatigue can be seen in every line on her beautiful face. I gently start to probe the wound with my fingers. Small hole and the bullet is still inside. I can't feel it with my fingers. That makes things more complicated. A large bruise in reds and purples spreads across her. This is just too far from anything I know how to deal with. I feel helpless.

I cover the wound with another wet towel and lie on the bed facing Sophie. I wipe away the sweat on her forehead. We need to talk about this now. I need to know what she wants from me. What should I do? I ask questions. Sophie nods or tries to whisper her answer. She looks so fragile and I just want to pick her up and hold her tight. Instead I try to get some information. "Hospital?" "No". "Doctor?" "No". "You want me to try to get it out?" She nods. "I've never done anything like this before". Another nod. You can do this Tara. I trust you. "I need to find some things. Will you be ok?" Another nod. Ok.

I help Sophie drink some water and give her a few more Tylenol tablets. I cover her with another towel, a cool one for her forehead. I gently pull the sheets up and kiss her warm cheek. I'll be back soon Sophie. I promise. I'll make this ok.

First thing on my list is something antiseptic. I need to clean out that wound and try to kill any infection that may be starting. I need something I can grab the bullet with and something to close the hole up with. I need to find Sophie some better pain meds. Nothing about this operation is going to be pleasant for her.

I start with the concierge. I ask for the address of the closest pharmacy and the name of someone who can provide some narcotics. He points me in the right direction for my supplies and assures me that my pills will be waiting for me when I get back.

I buy some bandaging, hydrogen peroxide and some butterfly strips that I hope will be enough to close up the hole. I don't even want to think about what I would use to do stitches. I grab the largest pair of tweezers I can find. Halfway back to the front of the store I decide to get a big bottle of whiskey. That's what they use in the movies and, if not for this, I will need it for myself when we are done.

I hurry back to the hotel and collect my pills from the concierge. Oxy. Excellent. I give the young gentleman a large tip and a winning smile then head back up to Sophie.

Sophie is still on the bed. She's pulled her knees toward her chest in a fetal position. Her arm is balanced awkwardly, trying to reduce its pull on the pain in her side. Her breathing is shallow and I think for a second that she isn't breathing at all." Oh thank God" I whisper as I see her chest move slightly.

I drop my bags in the bathroom and go to her. I sit and run my fingers through her hair. "Sophie?" She responds with a quiet moan. She's still awake. "A lot of pain? Do you want something stronger?" Another moan I take as an affirmative. "You know if it's bad I'm going to have to take you to a hospital." She looks scared. Ok. No hospital. Not unless it means I might lose you. You know I won't let that happen. I will do whatever it takes to make sure that you are OK. "I can do this", it's almost more a question than a statement. She looks at me and nods and I know the answer. She trusts me to do this. I can do this. I have to do this. For Sophie.

I give her an oxy and more water. I am anxious to get started but I need to take care of Sophie first. I lay next to her and move as close as I dare. I wrap my fingers in her hair and cradle her too warm face in my hands. I lay with her and whisper to her until the narcotics take hold and she finally drifts off into sleep. Reluctantly I let her go. It's time to work.

I gently roll Sophie to her stomach and clean her again. I am worried about the amount of blood she's losing. I don't know how long she was hurt before she contacted me. I get my supplies ready as I wait for housekeeping to bring me fresh towels. I bolster her on both sides with blankets and pillows. I fill the ice bucket with warm water. I pour peroxide over my hands and tweezers. I'm as ready as I'm ever going to be. I seriously consider the whiskey. One more deep breath to calm my shaking hands and I begin to slowly pour the peroxide over the wound. Sophie reacts to the pain with a full body contraction. I whisper "I'm sorry Soph. I'm so sorry" as tears flow from my eyes.

I gently probe the wound again with my fingers. I need to find the bullet. I need to get that first. The more I poke around, the more Sophie bleeds fresh blood. I need to do this quick. Finally my finger tip finds something hard and round. "Oh thank god" I whisper again. A quick check to make sure Sophie is still unconscious and I go to work with the tweezers, trying to capture the round ball of metal, to tease it out. Slow Tara. Keep it tight. Don't let it slip away. With a sudden flow of blood, the bullet finally breaks loose and I pull it free. With a sick stomach, I examine the bullet. It's a small caliber, very small. And round. An antique? From an antique gun? What the hell have you been doing Sophie? What the Bloody Hell!

I spend the night lying with Sophie, placing cool towel after cool towel over the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. Sophie doesn't move. She's not sleeping but not quite aware either. I whisper to her over and over that I love her and that I need her and that everything is going to be OK. I hope she can hear me. I hope she believes me. I hope I believe me.

By morning, the bleeding has mostly stopped and I feel fairly certain that there is no real damage and no internal bleeding. I pull the skin together as best I can with the butterfly strips. I still don't know if her hot cheeks and moist forehead are from pain or from infection. I keep her on the oxy, as much as I dare, and I try to keep the wound clean with peroxide and towels and bandages. I wipe her forehead with cool cloths and I watch. And I wait. There is nothing else I can do but watch and wait and try to keep her comfortable. I feed her broth and water and try to keep her hydrated. I don't sleep.

Sophie sleeps most of the hours in the day. I try to keep her taking the pills so she can rest comfortably and heal herself. I practice my Italian watching soap operas and old movies. I fuss over Sophie and pace the room. I am afraid to leave her for more than a few minutes at a time. I pay the concierge to bring me books and magazines and food. I pay the old lady housekeeper to bring me fresh towels and linens and take away the soiled ones. I can't imagine what they might think is going on in here but they keep my secret.

It's been three long days and nights but finally I can see that Sophie is getting better. The fever in her cheeks begins to subside and I start to reduce the oxy. Another day before she is ready to move. I carefully walk her to the tub and clean her as best I can without soaking the bandages. I wash her hair and comb out the knots. I feed her some broth and move her gently back to the bed. Finally I feel I can hug her without causing her too much pain. She feels so good next to me. I never want her to leave again. I fall asleep, the first time in days, her head cradled in my arms, finally satisfied that she will still be with me in the morning.

We sleep late into the day. I get up and offer a pain pill but Sophie declines. Its time she comes back to life. I order eggs and toast and tea and she eats and drinks it all. Her strength is coming back. She tells me that the pain from the bullet wound is bearable but she is having trouble breathing, every breath starts and ends with a sharp pain across her side. I think that maybe the bullet nicked or cracked a rib. Nothing we can do about that but wait it out. I give her one more oxy and coax her back to sleep.

We spend the next 10 days in the hotel, Sophie trying to recover and me trying to get a straight story out of her. I make sure she eats and drinks and I keep the dressings clean and dry. I wrap her in my arms at night and cry to think what almost happened. I still can't believe that she and I both survived this. I desperately want to know who shot her. I want to find that person and squeeze him (or her) until their head explodes. I want them to feel all of Sophie's pain and all of mine. I feel a deep hatred inside of me that I have never felt before.

Sophie knows my love but also senses my hate and is reluctant to tell me what really happened. She is afraid I will do something stupid. She is right. I promise her that I will not hunt this person down but I keep my fingers crossed. Slowly she begins to share, making me swear that I will keep control. For her. Only for her.

She was in the basement of the Correr Museum, one of the most famous in Venice. She was examining a private collection of Renaissance paintings that would soon be hung in a new show. She had selected several of her favorites and was busy cutting them from their frames, so much easier to carry than a large framed piece. A man appeared at the door. He was holding a small silly looking gun. She happened to have a small silly gun of her own and was showing it to him when he yelled, startling her and accidently causing her to shoot at him. The bullet hit him in the shoulder and it startled him into accidently shooting his little gun, hitting her as she turned away. She yelled some ridiculous English obscenity at him and he ran away. She didn't even know she was hurt badly until she left the museum. She was more upset that she didn't take a painting with her. She came back to her hotel and tried to deal with it all herself but, as the pain and loss of blood took over, she decided to call me. She waited 2 days before she sent me that text.

"Why did you wait so long? Why didn't you go to the hospital?" I begged. "Did you know how close I was to losing you? Do you know what that would do to me? My God Sophie! You almost died!" She looks ashamed. "I know" she whispered. "I was embarrassed". I look at her incredulously. "Are you kidding me? You get shot and you're embarrassed about it?" She tries to explain. "It was the first time I'd ever been shot. It didn't seem like it was that bad. I thought that I could handle it." "And a hospital?" I asked. She shook her head no. "Hospitals want names and numbers. They write down information and leave a paper trail that can be followed. They ask questions and they contact the police." I understand it all though I still can't imagine any of it being more important than her life. "Well at least next time, call me right away OK?" She smiles. Next time. God I hope there's not going to be a next time.

"Tell me his name, Sophie! Tell me who it was." She shakes her head no. She still doesn't trust me to keep myself under control. She knows me too well. We are sitting cross legged on the bed. We are sipping a bit of the whiskey I bought that first day. It seemed like a year ago at least. My hand is resting on her knee. She is finally starting to look like her old self. Her face is no longer pasty white and she has a bit of color in her cheeks. She is still in pain, I can tell because every time she moves she winces. She tries to hide it and she thinks I don't see but I do. She is done with the pills. I flushed them down the toilet. I push her one more time. I need to know who this man is. Finally she relents and whispers "Nate Ford." "Ford! The insurance guy Ford?" In spite of my promises I hear my voice getting higher and louder. She blushes just a bit and quietly corrects me "Nate. His name is Nate." "Oh my God Sophie! You like him?" I am louder still and her cheeks get a bit pinker. "Sophie! He's trying to catch you! He wants to put you in jail. He tried to kill you!" "HE SHOT YOU!"

She answers me in her quiet voice. "To be fair I did shoot him first." I roll my eyes. What Sophie was doing with a gun, no matter how small and how old, I can't begin to understand. "It's just something I picked up somewhere" she told me.

"Nate is sweet, in his own way". I roll my eyes again. "We have a bit of a thing going. Nothing really. He's married and, well, I'm a thief. It's like a game. Cat and mouse. With a fair share of flirting." I sigh. Dear Sophie, you are one of a kind. Still I feel a dark nugget of hate for Mr. Ford deep inside me. We will settle this one day, he and I. Despite my promises to Sophie, we will settle this.

Sophie leans into me and kisses me. I feel her body tighten with pain but she tries to ignore it. She touches my face and kisses me harder. She tastes like whiskey. My hand gently traces down her injured side. "I don't want to hurt you Soph." I murmur. She pulls me closer and then down to the bed. "You could never hurt me Tara". "And besides, I owe you now." She slides her hand up my shirt. I'm not wearing a bra and she finds her target. "Sophie," I try again. "I don't know…" She shushes me. I look into her eyes and I see what she wants. I want that too. Slowly I undress her. I let my fingers fall lightly across her ribs then down her side to her hip. Her hand tightens on my breast, she finds my nipple and suddenly I can't think about anything but her. She slips my shirt off over my head and rolls into me, her tongue tracing the outlines of my areola. I arch my back and pull her down on top of me. This is all I ever really wanted. Just Sophie. And me. Together.

I roll her to her good side and kiss her. Her hand finds its way down the front of my pants and suddenly her touch is unbearable. I shed the rest of my garments and slide close to her so that are bellies are touching. One more check to make sure she is ok. Her eyes are unfocused. She reaches to kiss me again and our hands start their work. We are in perfect synch, our fingers mirror each other, slowly and gently tracing each other's lines, finding their spots, rubbing and holding until neither of us can take any more. I pull her into me as we both lose control of our own bodies, merging into one beautiful being. We lay together for a long time. Just being.

She quietly whispers to me "Bloody hell Tara" before settling into my arms and falling asleep.

Sophie gets stronger every day. We take walks during the day and I hold her tighter every night. I kiss her gently and stroke her hair when she hurts. We make love when she doesn't. This was a horrible thing we went through but I am still thankful she called me. I don't tell her I love her. She doesn't want to hear that from me. She just wants to know that I will come to her when she needs me. I will always be there for her. I can't imagine it any other way.


End file.
